


Slow Show

by allegheny



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball Mysticism, Colorado Rockies, Dreams and Nightmares, First Time, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mutual Pining, Washington Nationals, learning spanish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegheny/pseuds/allegheny
Summary: You know I dreamed about youFor twenty-nine years before I saw youNolan has a lot of strange dreams.One evening, he finally talks to Anthony Rendon, and a door unlocks somewhere.





	Slow Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [actualtaracole (freaking_intelligent_fangirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freaking_intelligent_fangirl/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [actualtaracole (freaking_intelligent_fangirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freaking_intelligent_fangirl/pseuds/actualtaracole) in the [boysofsummer19](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/boysofsummer19) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>    
> Anthony Rendon/Nolan Arenado
> 
> So Tony and Nolan are two of the best 3B in the game, don't @ me it's true. So how about one day when the Nats are playing the Rockies, either in DC or Denver, and Tony makes a truly eye catching play that impresses everyone. After the game Nolan goes up to talk to Tony and compare notes about playing at the hot corner. Nolan is maybe a teensy bit nervous about going to talk to him because they're rivals and Nolan's perhaps a little concerned that Tony resents him for (hogging) winning all the NL Gold Gloves. But Tony's super chill and he and Nolan very quickly become friends. Cue a friends to oh fuck what is sexuality to lovers with a healthy dose of mutual pining pls.

Nolan has a recurring dream.  
It's been coming around and back for the past few years, maybe three times a summer if he's keeping count.  
He doesn't usually dream about baseball. Not since the last postseason exit. That doesn't mean baseball is absent from his dreams, on the contrary. His subconscious self is usually impractically clad in his last travel ball team's uniform, prancing around the Yellowstone and his parents' house and the surreal streets of an imagined Cuba like a mismatched toy figure in the wrong exhibit. In almost all of his dreams he carries a bat, like an extension of his arm, a weapon he can't use, a part of the blurry watery self his brain sends out to adventure in his sleep.

But in this dream he isn't holding a bat. His hands are empty and bare. However, he's on a baseball diamond. Standing at third with a runner on, adrenaline beating at his chest, ready to pounce.  
In the dream he can see behind his head, he can feel the man standing behind him, overlapping with his back, in high socks and a tucked-in-jersey, and Nolan realises that for once he's not in uniform, a normal guy dropped at the hot corner, feeling as naked as if he wasn't wearing anything.  
The player hovering behind him keeps speaking to him.

"That was a nice play earlier. That was a really nice play."

Nolan never answers, focused on his pitcher and the batter at the plate.

"It was a nice play. What are you going to do next?"

There's the crack of the bat, and Nolan always wakes up then.

—

His mom always thinks he's doing great.  
It's not that he dislikes the little texts she sends him after bad games, but sometimes, he remembers telling her, sometimes he just sucks.  
Going oh-fer-five with an error for a loss at home qualifies as sucking, as far as he's concerned. It's not what he's supposed to do. He's a star third baseman who just signed a fat extension. There are expectations and he can't have two of these nights in a row. He needs to be better.  
Which is why when he finally leaves the video room, the clubbies are closing up.

"Night Tiny." He says as he walks past the clubhouse manager.

"Night Nolan. See you tomorrow."

"Yep." Nolan absently replies, realising he's going to be losing at least an hour of sleep to this.

It's pitch black outside in the players' parking lot, so Nolan immediately notices the silhouette leaning by the away clubhouse's entrance, illuminated by a phone screen.  
He's easy to recognise: it's Tony Rendon. Which is weird, because the Nationals' bus left more than an hour ago.  
But Rendon is standing there, absorbed in his phone.  
He's had a great game today. 3 RBIs and a stellar diving catch that robbed Nolan of a hit. It only highlighted his own failure, but he remembers running down the first base line and watching him jump and grab that ball out of thin air to end the inning, and he felt _furious_.

As he walked back to the dugout and the catch replayed on the scoreboard, though, he couldn't help but admire it. That was stellar.

"That's how people feel when they hit it your way, Nado." Desi comforted him, with a tap on his shoulder, as they grabbed their gloves to go back out on the field.

Nolan knows.  
Rendon is _good_ , it’s no news to him. He’s pesky as all hell. He’s a great fucking third baseman. Nolan takes intent in watching him, because he’s always learning.  
And he likes watching Rendon play.  
He’s got a kind of steadiness and weight about him that Nolan can’t help admiring in the players who have it. A sure hand, a gracefulness. It’s teachable in a way watching video of himself isn’t— it gives him new ideas.

Nolan has to walk past him. He’s gonna have to say something. He doesn’t like talking to opponents mid series, especially after losing to them that bad, but it would be impolite not to. He’s always been too awkward to talk to Rendon, on top of that. They very much are rivals on paper, and Rendon would probably have at least one Gold Glove if not for Nolan.

“Sup.” He says, kind of hoping Rendon will just nod him along.

But he looks up and makes eye contact with Nolan. He's got twinkling, friendly brown eyes, but the parking lot is dark and they're two flat black orbs in thin crescent whites reflecting the floodlights.

“Oh hey man.” he replies.

Now Nolan has to talk to him, even though he's had a long day, has nothing to say, and is still a little pissed off from earlier. Great job.

“Did you uh, miss the bus?”

Rendon smiles in the light of his phone screen.

“Had a couple things to sort out. I don’t like watching video at the hotel. Gotta separate.”

“You went three for four, dude, why you watching video?” Nolan raises an eyebrow, with a slightly bitter smile.

Rendon smirks, leaning back on his heels.

“Uh, not gonna tell you. I don’t need your pitchers to know.”

Nolan scoffs, but it’s good-natured. Of course he’s not gonna tell him anything.

"I'd like to know how you snatched what would have been like, my only hit. How'd you even do that."

"Oh man, that was a good one. Well, I was just ready for you." Rendon smiles, cryptically.

Nolan doesn't know why he just stands there. He's tired and he can't find anything to retaliate, probably.

"No, but, really?" Rendon says, motioning with his hand. "I knew what the pitcher was gonna throw and I knew you would hit it cause you like that spot, right. So I was ready. What I wanna know, is how you make those crazy plays from down on your ass, and all. I've got the arm strength, but I just don't seem to be able to make those plays, man."

Nolan is surprised Rendon is even entertaining him, willing to have a full conversation about third base defence with him.

"Well." He mumbles. "I just, repeat and repeat it. Like, I play out the crazy plays in practice. Just any uh, crazy video game play you can think of, I have a coach throw that, and I do it, again, and again, and when it happens, I'm ready for it 'cause I've done it before, you know."

Rendon nods as if to concede.

"Sounds easier said than done."

"Because it is."

It's Rendon's turn to scoff a little, rolling his eyes with a smirk baring his teeth.

“Okay then. Cheeky.”

A small silence. There’s not much left to say.

“You getting a lyft home? They lock everything up at night here." Nolan asks, awkwardly, hoping to end the exchange now that it's run its course.

"Yeah, yeah, just ordering one right now." Rendon looks just as sheepish as him.

"Okay, right, well..."

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, uh, get home safe.”

“Okay, bye!”

And Nolan goes and gets his car.  
Well, that was a little weird but went easier than he thought it would.  
The traffic back to his downtown condo is lighter than usual at this time of the night. He'll just eat what's in his fridge, he's too tired to go to Elway's.  
The apartment is dark and he almost trips on the sneakers he left lying on the floor earlier. He's never been the tidiest, thank god for the cleaning lady, because there's no one else that's going to clean up after him. And soon enough it's going to be the same at home, with the house he just bought. No mom to yell at him to put away his clothes. At least, his teammates won't make fun of him for still living with his parents anymore, but as Nolan sits on the couch in his empty living room and flicks on Netflix, it seems completely glaring to him that he'll probably still spend most of his offseason at his childhood home.

He can't help it, it's just how he grew up : surrounded by people, never really alone, and a real momma's boy. He remembers coming home from school every day, immediately grabbing a basketball, and running down the street to his cousins' driveway backboard. He remembers the weekends spent punishing wiffle balls in the backyard with the whole gaggle of Arenado boys, and taking their short-of-one team to pick up a game at the neighbourhood park. He remembers early mornings at the beach watching his older brother and cousins zip around on their surfboards, and wanting so hard not just to do the same, but to do better. Rise about the mass. Be the best in the crowd. Take flashier shots, hit balls farther, take waves smoother.  
The multitude made him who he is : a competitor. And now, he's not too sure who he is when he's alone too long. He doesn't like that feeling. He needs noise. He needs family.  
The good thing about professional baseball is that it gives him just that. Twenty five guys piled up on top of each other in close quarters for half the year makes for Nolan's daily intake of camaraderie and competition. Which is why he doesn't mind that he lives alone in his high-rise condo.  
He watches his daily episode of The Office while wolfing down some mac and cheese, and goes straight to bed. Ready for another day.

—

This isn't the first time he has this dream either.  
It feels so real that he's not sure if it's a memory, something buried deep inside of him resurfacing.  
He's smothered by a wave, his childhood surfboard yanking him back to the surface by his ankle leash. There's water in his nose and his ears and bubbles all around him as he flails the usual baseball bat around. When he finally makes it above-water, the waves are rolling handsomely, boys in wetsuits riding their backs and their curves, effortless, graceful, and Nolan feels so ashamed, ashamed to have fallen, ashamed to have failed, and yet he can't keep his eyes off this ballet of young men just showing him up, the long, lithe form of their bodies and the strong, solid stance of their legs, their wet hair slick and sticking to their faces.  
He feels stupid, and out of place in his travel team uniform, and weirdly exposed, barely floating, feeling like the ocean’s going to swallow him back.

“Nobody can know.” A voice shouts at him.

“What?” He yells back.

“Nobody can know! You’re looking.”

“I’m what?” He yells again, and suddenly he’s out in the open sea, the beach nowhere to be seen, grappling at his old board, all the boys gone.

“What are you looking at, Nado?”

He recognises the voice, and something strange stirs inside of him.

“I said what are you looking at? Get the fuck away from me.”

“I didn’t– I don’t know–“ Nolan’s hands slip off the board, his own weight dragging him down, his chest bubbling like the underneath of a rip-tide.

"They can tell!" the voice shouts. "Watch out!"

Nolan looks down, but it's too late. He bubbles over, and everything beneath him disappears, and he falls, screaming, underneath the waves.

He wakes up in a sweat.  
Weirdly, for the first time in years, he's compelled to check under the covers.

—

“Hey. Nolan. How you doing?”

“I’m good. Uh, weird dreams, though.”

“Did you eat eggs before bed? I always sleep weird when I do.”

“Oh, no, not this time. You might be onto something though, you know”

“Haha. Well... Oh, wait. I realised last night after you left... I don’t have your number, man. I got Chuck’s and Desi and all but not yours.”

“Hey, it’s true. I don’t have yours either. Hey, uh, I don’t have my phone on me...”

“I’ll just give it to your clubbie, don’t worry bout it.”

“Thanks. That sounds great.”

Nolan hits the go-ahead homer that wins them that one, and as he rounds first, Rendon leans his head as if to concede.

Maybe that was a good one, too.

*******

"So" Tony asks, leaning the phone onto the bedside table. "How you doing?"

The bed is comfortable, and the view of Cleveland is, well, alright. It's Cleveland ; by no means is it impressive. On the screen of his phone, the upper half of Nolan's face is distorted, his eyes half-lidded and his sickly complexion overexposed by the California sun filtering through the windows.

"Not all that great. Feels like, you know, my entire fucking body is made of lead. Also I might be a little out of it." Nolan mumbles. "Ugh. This sucks." he groans.

"Wish you were here, man. Wish you were here." Tony smiles compassionately.

"Bullshit. If I was here you wouldn't be an All-Star starter for shit." Nolan quips. "My, uh, misfortune is your luck."

Tony can't help but laugh out loud.  
When he gave Nolan his number, he honestly didn't expect him to become any more than just another handy addition to his address book. He certainly didn't expect to become good friends with him. And yet, it had only taken a few months, dinner after a couple series, and a few mutual interests to make Nolan someone he texts for a pick-me-up after bad games.  
So, of course, they'd been pretty excited when they'd both ended up finalists for the All-Star game.

"We're gonna get to hang out."

"It's gonna be pretty chill."

Of course, it didn’t happen that way. Nolan’s home with the flu, and Tony, the first reserve, is starting his first ever All-Star game. It feels big, he can't help it. He doesn’t like the spotlight, doesn’t need the recognition, but, well... he's mostly doing it for Nolan, if he's being honest. He only accepted the invitation, initially, because they were both going, but now Nolan is out, it would be a shame to drop out. He _has_ to go, just to playfully stick it to Nolan, and because he's heard him sing the praises of the weekend to him over a thousand times, and he was pretty excited to go again this year until he fell ill. It feels pointless if he doesn't get to sit and watch the derby with Nolan, but it doesn't feel like he can just give up now.

“I’m gonna be real with you I might be a little delirious.” Nolan slurs down the line. “Like I thought my Gold Glove award just talked to me and I know that’s not a thing.”

“Stop bragging about your Gold Gloves. Man, you're a hog.”

“Shhh, I can’t help being good. Watch and learn.”

There’s a silence. Nolan's dead-eyeing the screen, and Tony’s starting to get confused as to what he meant, but he immediately gets his answer.

“Oh god.” Nolan groans. “Okay I thought I was on field for a second. I was gonna do a trick. Nevermind.”

“What are they giving you man? You’re gonna get busted for PEDs!” He snorts.

“Shut up.” Nolan says. “It’s the fever.”

“Well I hope you never recover so I can at least have a shot at that freakin Gold Glove this year.”

Nolan snickers.

“In your fucking dreams.” He pauses. “No, but like, really. You deserve this, dude.”

“Aww, be quiet.” Tony smiles, a little flattered, a little embarrassed.

“No, like, I mean it. I don’t like how you’re overlooked. It sucks.”

“It’s just fine with me—“

“Cut the bullshit... you’re great and you deserve recognition, dude.” Nolan points at the screen.

"Aww. Thanks?"

"It's true! Oooh fuck I thought I was falling backwards for a second there."

Nolan looks woozy for a second and Tony makes the executive decision to cut the phone call short.

“You should probably sleep, dude.”

“Yeah. You right. Okay. Well. Have fun.”

“Get better, bro.”

“Ugh, I hope so.”

Nolan squeezes in a smile, and Tony hangs up. Sighing, he rolls onto his back.  
He’s a little nervous— in fact, he can feel the anxiety creeping back in now that he isn't teasing Nolan about it all. He flew his parents up for this. It’s going to be a whole thing. It's not that his parents never come to see him play — they always make the trip when he's down southwest, and his whole family tags along when they play the 'Stros. But this, this is another thing altogether. An exhibition of the best players in the game. The thing is that doesn't _feel_ special. Hell, he isn't! He's just good at doing what he does. It's a honour, sure, but he doesn't want to be exposed, and he doesn't want the pedestal, and—

Okay, maybe this is not the time to have a panic attack. He grabs his phone from the bedside table and starts scrolling through it for something that will calm him down.  
His thumb hovers over the Bumble app.

There’s some notifications in there, but he feels apprehensive about them. He shouldn't, it just means people are actually interested in him, but if he's being honest, dating apps haven't been working so well for him since he first installed them a year ago. It's not like he's not getting an enthusiastic amount of replies, it's just he can never seem to go through with the dates. Like he's hitting a wall. It never feels right.  
It's been two years since he last was in a relationship that lasted more than a week, and even then that was only a few months. He misses companionship, he does. But nothing seems to fit. He knows he should be venturing further to actually assess if he can be compatible with someone, but he invariably ends up feeling disinterested in the girl across the table by the end of the night.

It's never what he's looking for. But he doesn't know what he's looking for : he's blindfolded in an already-dark room with no maps or instructions, just the nagging intuition that wherever he wants to be, this isn't it.

It's like something is scratching at the back of his brain, something he can't reach for or look at or seem to recognise, an itch he can't scratch, a rash he can't see. A knocking on his head, trying to get his attention, but he can't open the door. In the meanwhile, he's stuck in limbo, doomed to nipping relationships in the bud.

It's frustrating, because he realises he should know what this is ; it's happened to him before, when he was 16. The unnerving ticking inside his skull, keeping him awake and making his heart beat too fast, forcing him to take action.

He was never a very outgoing kid, or teenager. It was never a self-confidence problem, he just was always private, this isn't anything new. Maybe that's part of why he's not good at these apps. He'd always revelled in his inward life, in the person he is when he's alone. In the reality of his secret self. Having to sum himself up in a few sentences on a profile, trying to lay himself bare out there, to get picked apart and analysed...he just doesn't enjoy the idea.  
But high school was even worse. High school was a monster of self-awareness ; high school was having eyes on the back of your hands. It emphasised everything about the adult he would become. And this fear of no longer having himself for himself, of being found out as a person — it all started there.  
With the scratching.

"Dad, I'm telling you. I'm no good at hoops, I mean I'm like, 5'5, and I'll never be fast enough for track. It's just being you know, pragmatic." Tony remembers arguing, sitting down on the couch. "I can just concentrate on baseball."

"Ant, mijo..." His dad sounded concerned almost immediately.

"Hey look, I'm not gonna stop playing hoops, it's just... it's not worth tryna make the team." Tony had explained, half-convincingly.

"Are you sure, Ant? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No! Why would you say that?"

He remembers his dad's deep, concerned eyes, and his sigh.

"Okay... If that's what you want. But... you can tell me anything, Ant, okay? Remember that."

But Tony never told him when, a few weeks later, he realised exactly why he couldn't look Davey from track in the eyes and why he couldn't catch his breath when Devonte, the team's point guard, brushed his shoulder.

Oh.

Oh no.

He knows exactly what this is.  
Frantically, he swipes back to the main screen, and opens the photo app. Dozens of Facetime screenshots of Nolan smiling and goofing off litter his camera roll.

He lets the phone drop onto the mattress, his heart racing.  
So much for not panicking tonight.

******

Tony's at third.  
The game is tied in the sixth.  
There's two outs.  
Nolan loves Tony, but he would rather he wasn't on third.  
But there he is, smiling at him, all cheeky and readjusting his belt as Nolan throws the baseball back to the pitcher's mound.

"That was a nice play earlier, man." Tony teases, brushing down his pants with his gloved hands.

He means two innings ago, when Nolan robbed him of a hit with a flashy throw. Tony had glared playfully across the diamond. Nolan walks back to the base, planting his cleat next to Tony's, careful not to look at him.

"That was a real nice play." Tony repeats, almost pensively this time.

Nolan is getting a weird feeling of déjà vu from this, something he can't quite pinpoint, something that makes his arms heavy and the back of his neck itch.  
He nudges Tony in the ribs, throwing off his balance, almost pushing him off the bag.

"Oh, that's how it is, huh?" Tony exclaims.

"It's a dog eat dog world." Nolan just says, smirking at him, before taking his position, a few steps into the infield. The pitcher's at bat, and he's probably gonna bunt.

He can feel Tony behind him, hovering, light on his feet but a heavy presence all at once. It reminds him of being in class, trying to concentrate, but everything around him swirling in bright colours and distracting patterns, walling him in and weighing on him, keeping him from what he should be doing, his hyperactive, inattentive mind tripping and wandering.

"So, what you gonna do next?" Tony asks, his voice strangely distant, and Nolan can hear the smile on his lips.

He tries to keep his focus on the ball, on the bat, on the windup, but he feels unsettled, though he can't exactly tell why. Tony's words seem to bounce around his skull, spinning and grazing at his thoughts, enswirling him, the sound of his cleats scratching at the infield dirt echoing into his ears like the walls of a shower room—

The pitcher doesn't bunt. He swings. There's the crack of the bat and the ball zips above Nolan's head. It drops just far enough for Tony to take off, bolting down the line.  
Nolan jumps for the ball. He throws home as hard as he can. Coors roars.  
When the dust settles, Tony’s covered in dirt, helmet askew, unexplainably grinning at him. He’s out.  
He just sits there, all sprawled out and beaming madly towards third base as everyone walks off the field. Nolan feels jubilant.

"That's what I'm doing next!" He shouts at Tony gleefully as he trots by on the way back to the dugout.

Tony's got something indescribable in his eyes, something crazy, something fizzy and bubbling like boiling water, crackling like wood in the fire.  
Nolan doesn't know what it is.

He doesn't bring it up when they have dinner together later that night, but he can't keep his eyes off Tony the rest of the game. Like he's waiting for something. Like he's expecting something to happen, and he doesn’t want to miss it. Like it's the first face he's ever seen, and he's curious to see what it will do next.

And he knows he shouldn't stare. Staring never brings anything good— no, it never does. He's always careful never to stare, anymore.  
But it's like sugar, like coffee, like a little addiction so sweet that he can't shake it.

"Hey Nado. Nado. Hey, the fuck are you doing? What you staring at?"

"Nothing!"

"No, no, you staring at me. What the fuck is your problem?"

He gets grabbed by his jersey. The rest of his travel teammates circle around him and the first baseman.

"Am not! I wasn't staring I swear!" He squeaks, panicking. "I swear to god!"

He gets shoved. He's too embarrassed to fight back, too scared. Usually he'd have his fist in this guy's face so fast, but he feels horrible, he feels caught, because he _was_ staring.

"Shut up, everybody knows you're a fag."

It's not the first time he's heard that word from them. It won't be the last. He's the star corner infielder until they're in the locker room and they rail him for his gait. He's been trying to walk with his shoulders.

"I'm not!" He shouts helplessly, falling into boxing position, hands shaking. "Shut up!"

"What, are you upset? You gonna cry? Sissy queer's gonna cry?"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up. I'm. Not. Gay." Nolan grits out.

Everyone laughs. He gets shoved against the wall, his head hitting the tile, and this time, he's ready, he's gonna punch that bastard—

"Hey. Nolan. Hey, man. Anyone home?"

"Huh?"

Across the table, Tony's handing him a bowl. His voice is soft, his Texan drawl honey-like, comforting.

"Want any hummus?"

Nolan gathers himself, acknowledging his hands, the chair beneath him, the plate of quinoa salad in front of him. He's not fifteen years old, he's not in Fresno for a tourney, he's in Denver sharing food with a good friend, who's smiling at him kindly.

"Oh." Nolan pauses. "Sorry. Yeah, sure." He says absently, taking the bowl and helping himself to a small scoop.

He can feel Tony eyeing him up curiously.

"You good there?"

"Yeah. Sorry, I was thinking about something."

"About how you can rub that play in?" Tony snickers self-depreciatingly.

Nolan waves it off with as much of a smile as he can muster, his brain still lingering on the travel ball flashbacks.

"Nah. Don't worry. I made you look fucking stupid, though." He teases joyfully, remembering the throw contentedly.

"Shut upppp." Tony groans, but he's smiling as he takes a bite out of his sourdough sandwich.

Tony leans back, tugging at his tank top.  
Nolan's eyes can't help but linger again. The soft, muscular arms ; their gentle golden tint.  
He still can't stop himself. The deep brown eyes, velvety and black almost, the curve of the inky eyebrows, the wet ringlets of his hair ; all the familiar colours and shapes where Nolan sees himself, from the sepia grain of his skin to the round, strong angles of his jaw. Tony looks like a family reunion, like arroz y habichuelas, like a sunny backyard cookout. He looks like a song, like a hug, like sizzling plantains.

"Hey," he hears himself saying, his hands flat on the table. "Can you speak Spanish?"

Maybe that was rude. Tony raises his eyes from his plate, looking a little taken aback, but not _offended_ or anything.

"Oh man. Actually," he says, carefully, but with the eternal smile creeping in. "Not really. My parents never really... taught me."

Something warm stirs in Nolan's chest.

"Hey!" he lets out. "Me neither!"

"Oh!" Tony perks up. "For real?"

"Yeah. They call me the fake Latino on my team. I can say a couple things but like... they barely even spoke it in front of us. And my dad was, like, born in Cuba, and my mom's Puerto Rican, and they both speak..."

"I know, right! My dad was born in Mexico." Tony seems taken, his eyes wide and his hands alert. "He just never... I wish he'd taught me, man! I get why they didn't, but..."

"It would have come in handy, considering the career path." Nolan laughs.

"Yeah! I feel really dumb. I should take the time to learn, but..."

"Yeah... Well, we could learn together, you know, like, uh, push each other, I guess?" Nolan ventures, his heartbeat fast and light.

Tony actually grins, crossing his arms.

"You know what?" he says, pointing at Nolan nonchalantly. "That's a really, really good idea. Man, I had no idea... I thought you spoke."

Nolan feels oddly flattered.

"Yeah, no." he smiles abashedly. "I'm the worst Spanish speaker."

"Not for long." Tony sets his hand down on the table, and holds out his hand. "We gonna learn Spanish together. Deal?"

Nolan doesn't hesitate. He shakes Tony's big rough hand. It's warm and it feels nice and the handshake is firm and he wants to lock his fingers with Tony's, because it feels good.

"Deal." he repeats.

He can't stop staring the rest of the night either. When he gets back home, his heart is still beating so fast he almost feels sick and his head spins all the way through the night.

******

It's the last series against Colorado.  
Of course every game is important, but it's September, and the division is anyone's to take.  
Tony has to be focused. He can't let anything distract him.

Not even last night's call with Nolan.  
God he can't let himself do this. Nolan's his friend. He should be resisting this : he knows it's probably hopeless, and he'd always made himself promise : no ballplayers. Hell, no men. Not right now. It's not a good idea. He can just look for a girl instead, he likes girls, it's not a problem.  
But the heart wants what it wants, and Tony _hates_ that it does.

The first thing he'd noticed about Nolan when he first saw him shagging balls in Colorado was the acne. Man, he had serious skin problems. That was all the thought then. But as the years went by, and Nolan matured, it _had_ become a little hard to ignore that Nolan was exactly Tony's type, but he didn't think he would be idiotic enough to do this to himself, to let this grow anywhere past aesthetic appreciation.  
The Duolinguo competing and the weekly calls haven't made it any easier, and that's partly his fault, surely. He should have kept his distance as soon as he realised what was happening, but instead, he let himself get even closer to Nolan, bond even tighter, discover kinships he could have lived in ignorance of. And now he's got it bad and he's in too deep and it's too late for him.

"Hey, guess what chapter I'm on now?" Nolan croons down the phone.

"Hmm?"

On the screen, Nolan's face is lit only by his phone, the bedsheets all around him, the top of his faint chest hair peeking into the frame, because Nolan sleeps bare-chested and Tony's mind is wandering a little —

"Romance and love." Nolan quips, the tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth. "I'm gonna be, uh, the latin loverboy I was always meant to be, dude."

Tony's glad it's too dark for Nolan to see him flush. Nolan looks cute.

"Dude, you already are." He manages.

Nolan laughs, and it's like the entire hotel room around him is being engulfed with an ultrabright stadium floodlight. Even through the video, Tony can see the glistening of his eyes, like wonderful little gems on a sparkling theatre prop — _purpurina_ — and it does things to his chest.

"Shut up. Are you there yet?" Nolan continues, oblivious, thankfully, of Tony's blatantly adoring look.

"Yeah, I knew most of it already. Not to brag." he smiles. "I play my cards right. The Mexican, it's part of my charm."

"Oh, you do?" Nolan sits up, making the video shake. "Okay, show me then. Say something, uh, ¡Di algo!" he grins.

Tony snorts at Nolan.

"Alright, cariño." He pauses to try and think of something to say. "Te ves bueno esta noche."

Nolan bursts out laughing again, swaying back.

"That's easy, dude! That's like the simplest words ever."

"Okay. Okay!" Tony plants his hands on his thighs, adjusting the laptop's screen. His heart speeds up a little. He has to go for something a little riskier. It feels dangerous, forbidden. He's walking a very fine line. "Well, I could say..."

He thinks for a little.

"Vamos ir a un restaurante romántico, con las velas, rosas, y mucho champán. Hablaré en tu oreja suave, y bajo, y mimaré a tu y toquetearé y después iremos de mi casa. Y voy a cogerte hasta que voceas." He says, low, making his voice just raspy enough.

On the screen, Nolan is slowly processing the sentence, smiling still, but Tony catches him sucking in the corner of his lip. A chill runs through his whole body.  
Nolan finally chuckles, shifting.

"Okay, you got a little dirty right there." His expression is... tough to read. But it's not negative, at least, Tony doesn't think so.

"You asked for something more complicated, man." He smiles, feeling apologetic almost. Was it too much?

Nolan cocks his head, his eyes darting down to his right, and he flashes the tip of his tongue, wetting his bottom lip. Tony can't help it, he feels a throbbing at his wrists at the sight and his ears heat up. What he just said to Nolan — and now this _face..._

"No, it was great." Nolan says, before chuckling. "You ARE a charmer."

He looks back up at the screen, and bares his teeth with a smile, and it's not even a joke, he means it. God. Tony needs to get a grip. It's not like that. He's just being a friend...

"See? I told you. Latin charm." He smiles, keeping his composure, but he can hear the pitch of his voice rising a little.

Nolan laughs a little bit again.

"Hah. Okay well, once I'm done with this chapter, maybe I can get on your level. Although," he catches Tony's eye, "I don't think that bitch-ass owl will teach me some of the words you used in there, you know."

"Well," Tony says, sing-song and unable to hold himself back. "I can teach you what they mean."

He doesn't expect the silence that comes after to be that long, he expects Nolan to bounce back off him as usual. But for some reason, he doesn't say anything. It's only a few fractions of a second, but it feels like years. Was that somehow too forward? Did he get inappropriate? Did he fuck it up?  
Before he can overthink any further, Nolan lets out the most adorable little giggle, something almost girlish.

"You gonna give demonstrations and all?" he grins. There's something about him, something... _bashful_? And earnest. It almost scares Tony. Why is Nolan egging him on? He wasn't anticipating this. Is Nolan... flirting? No. He's teasing him. He's being playful. It's a bro thing.

"I mean," Tony says, carefully. "If you _want_ me too..." and he caps it off with his best shit-eating grin. Crap. That sounded flirty too.

Nolan just laughs, and shakes his head. He doesn't say anything, though. He just lies back on the bed, holding the phone above his head, and all of a sudden, Tony can see his chest, the black fuzz climbing down to his brown nipple, Tony's never seen his nipple before, and his stomach jumps. Nolan tucks his hand behind his head, exposing his toned bicep and his curly armpit, and Tony almost has to look away, because _fuck_ , he really is a little worked up. He just basically dirty-talked Nolan, for what it's worth, and now the bastard is acting all coy and hot, almost as if he knows what he's doing to Tony, almost like he's playing into it on purpose, like he knows this is going to get straight to Tony.  
Does he know?  
Is this a trap?

No.  
Nolan's probably clueless.  
And he's smiling, playing with his own hair, not saying anything. All the hairs on Tony's back are standing up and he feels very warm all over his body, and his hands are shaking a little. Okay, he has to pull himself together.

"Is that a yes?" he scoffs, finally, because he has to put an end to this.

"Ant!" Nolan shouts, snickering. "Shut up!"

"So I made an impression. Buttered you right up." he teases. "I didn't know you'd be so receptive!"

"Oh my god. Shut the fuck up." Nolan laugh, covering his eyes with his hand, but peeking out from underneath. "You asshole."

"I'm just saying! It's the Latin charm, man. Nobody can resist it. Not even you."

Nolan bites down on his lower lip ferociously, but his big, thousand-megawatt smile shines through, and his shoulders shake with laughter.

"You're gonna pay for that, I swear to god." he manages.

"What are you gonna do, man? Charm me back?" Tony retorts, proud of his recovery.

"Maybe I will. Maybe I will."

And now here he is, on the field, ready to face Nolan in a game that's undeniably important, when he can barely make sense of what happened last night still.  
He leaves his locker to find Trea alone in the gym, getting himself warmed up on the stationary bike. Tony hops on the one next to him.

"Heyyyy, bro." Trea greets him, taking a sip of his protein shake.

"Hey, man." Tony smiles at his best friend.

"How you feeling today?"

"Fine. Okay. You?"

"Yeah. I slept weird last night." Trea groans. "So I had to do a few extra stretches, and all. It's like the minors all over again, dude. I need a new mattress." He slurps again.

"Yea, you need to do something about that." Tony says sheepishly, staring ahead.

A silence.

"You got something on your mind, Ant?" Trea asks.

Tony's head whips around. Trea is leaning on the bike's handlebars, arms crossed loosely. He looks expectant. Ugh, he can really read Tony well now. What is he even supposed to say?

"Uh, well." he lets out, uselessly.

"You don't have to tell me. But I'm listening if you wanna, okay?" Trea says, assuming cycling position again.

It's a weirdly nice and soft thing to say. Tony's always surprised by how gentle the clubhouse gets to be. It always reveals itself during tragedy and hard times. Rough hands become comforting, snappy comebacks become words of sympathy. But sometimes, he guesses a friend can just tell when a friend needs to talk.  
One problem : he really can't tell Trea about this, friend or not. He's got something for another man ; not just another man, another ballplayer. That's not something he can tell Trea, no matter how close they are. But he really wants to, really bad.

"I don't know, man." He mumbles. "I ah... was talking to someone."

"Oh, nice!" Trea bumps him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Get yourself out there, I'm telling you."

"Yeah, well..."

The words don't come. He opens and closes his mouth helplessly. Damn. he got himself in there and now he doesn't know how to get out.

"I don't know. It doesn't matter, actually." He backs out, pathetically. He puts his feet on the pedals, and starts going for it.

"Hey!" Trea says. "It's fine, you know. It's fine, bro. You don't have to tell me, I told you. Just know I'm here for you, okay."

"I know. Love you, man." Tony smiles faintly, and claps him on the back a couple times, trying to regain face.

Trea smiles. "Love you too, bro."

They cycle in silence, nodding along to the music on the stereo. Definitely something from Juan's playlist back in the weight room. It's comfortable. Tony lets his mind empty, focusing on his breathing and on his muscles. It feels good, like he's sweating away everything that's bothering him. He knows he'll feel the same when he's at bat tonight.  
He really does love this game, man.

He cycles for a few more minutes, and then steps off, wiping his face with his towel. Trea stops too, hopping off the saddle.

"Good times." He says, whistling along to the music.

"You taking BP later?"

"Yeah. See you there?"

"I guess? I'm gonna stretch."

"Cool. I'm gonna do a few lifts with Juan."

They look at each other, and Tony has to say something. Trea's his friend. He won't let him know his whole true self, but he's his friend, and he wants to talk to him.

"Hey..." He starts, tentatively. "Trea. You know how these two women's hockey players, they're married, right?"

Trea pulls up at his basketball shorts, looking nonplussed.

"Oh, yeah. Right."

"Isn't that weird? Imagine dating another ballplayer." That sounds too gay. "Like, imagine playing... against your wife."

He looks up expectantly, unsure where he's going with this. Trea seems to actually think about it. He raises his eyebrows, and nods.

"Yeah. Kinda weird. Wouldn't you end up hating each other?"

"Yeah, I though that. But also, I'm friends with guys on other teams, and it's fine." He glances at the gameplan board through the window on the locker room. He can see Nolan's name from here. _Arenado : HOT HOT HOT. Pitch placement crucial. Breaking stuff safer_.

"But you don't, you know." Trea shifts his eyebrows a couple times, and Tony can't help but chuckle. "Sleep with them. Ugh, imagine the fights. My wife already has enough reasons to be mad at me."

They both laugh, though Tony doesn't think it's very funny at all.

"I can hear it from here. 'I'm not talking to you cause you stole that hit from me.'"

He and Nolan are always friendly about that.  
But Trea's right. They aren't sleeping together. They aren't together at all. Would that make such a huge difference? Is that why he's so anxious about facing Nolan tonight? Because he definitely wants to fuck Nolan, no matter how he tries to sugarcoat it for himself? He'd definitely fuck Nolan, and he knows it.  
If, by some miracle, they did get together, would it be like Trea says? Would they be able to compete and be partners all at once?  
The women's hockey players don't seem to have that problem.

A week ago, this wouldn't even be worth thinking about, because Nolan was probably not gay, and they're probably never going to be together, and hee has to remind himself of that.  
And then, yesterday came along, and Tony isn't so sure anymore.  
There's a possibility.  
And it's making everything harder.

"But." Trea says. "If I was married to an actual ballplayer... Like let's say a chill guy on another team... no homo, right..." he laughs at himself, obviously realising how macho he sounds, and Tony laughs with him, for real this time. "You know what I mean. I think it would be cool. I think it could work. Some guy that's not petty about it."

There's a lot to unpack there, but he knows Trea isn't the kind of guy who will willingly get into that.  
Somehow, though, it does make him feel better.

"You think that would ever happen?" He asks, as nonchalantly as possible. "Two MLB guys...together?"

Trea shrugs.

"I knew a gay guy in the minors. There's always rumours about... guys. You know. I don't think it's like, that wild, bro. Long as it's not me..."

And suddenly, Tony can't hold back his smile. He just nods, and all his teeth bare.  
Trea's... okay with this.  
Okay with him.

"Yeah." Tony muses. "You right. It's probably gonna happen at some point."

"Yeah! Doo keeps saying, you know. It's happening. Sooner or later." He shrugs. "Doesn't phase me."

Well, maybe Tony's got it bad, but at least, maybe things aren't as bad as he thought they were anymore. He pats Trea on the shoulder.

"Right. Alright, I'll let you go... Thanks, man. Appreciate the talk."

Trea gives him a funny look, but just smiles, and squeezes his arm briefly.

"Go get 'em. See you later, bro."

He feels so much lighter that he almost forgets about Nolan.

****** 

Nolan's never had this dream before.  
He's in a locker room, and he's removing that stupid travel ball uniform. It was tight, it rode up ; it was too small for him. It was time to get rid of it.  
He sheds all of it down on the tile and stands there, alone, and looks down at his hands to find his bat there. Heavy and sure, weighted just right.  
There's no one else here. It's just him. He takes a few swings, and he hears laughter, and waves, and it's light and beautiful out here, it's like a rainbow.

When he looks in the mirror, he stares back at himself, and sees the ocean, and he's on the beach where he and his brothers went surfing every summer, where he wiped out a thousand times and emerged spluttering, stumbling back to shore spitting water and laughing. And he's surrounded by beautiful people, by cousins he doesn't know yet, by music and song, by a whilrwind of colour.  
And he dances til he can't dance anymore, he's free and unafraid, and no one is talking to him, everyone is leaving him be.

And then, there's Tony.  
Nolan's here, in his normal clothes, and Tony's a runner at third, smiling at him.

"That was a nice play earlier." Tony grins, and Nolan feels so great.

And he's still got the bat, but his hands are all over Tony, and Tony's hands are all over him, overlapping, arms inside arms, bodies in transparency.

He wakes up then, damp and warm and short of breath.  
He can't keep fighting against himself.  
He has to look at himself in the mirror for the first time in years.

—

Whoever gets away with this game gets away with the season series.  
They're never catching up to the Dodgers, but there's a ferocious battle for the wildcard going on across the NL.  
They need to win this one.  
In the batting cage at home plate, Nolan swings and sends another one in Nationals Park's left field bleachers. Behind him, Charlie claps, loudly chewing on gum.  
He wants to see the ball sail away like this tonight. The team can't keep underachieving. This year, they're coming for everybody. Only a few games left, and this time, the wildcard won't slip away from them.  
He's determined.

He hits two more pitches, and reaches his 20 takes. Pulling off his batting gloves, he walks away from the cage as Trev steps in.

"Hey, man."

He looks up. Tony's there, in his BP hoodie and uniform pants, hat resting on top of his head. His hair is untied, and getting long, and the ringlets are shivering in the slight wind.  
He looks... god, Nolan can't be doing this. He smiles and he might as well be the fucking sun, Nolan can barely look at him.

"Hey!" He smiles, his heart speeding up.

He's trying not to think about Tony's sultry voice murmuring dirty things in Spanish as he lies down in the dark in his hotel room. It feels strange to even let himself acknowledge the way it makes him feel. It feels like a relic from another time, like a dusty box from his teenage bedroom, full of baseball cards of not-so-great players and stolen Cosmopolitan clippings, forgotten jigsaw pieces that once made sense, that he needs to assemble again to understand.  
It's like discovering an old diary entry scribbled on lined paper, jotted down to exorcise it but also in a desperate and contrary effort not to forget something that he shouldn't be feeling.  
_I saw Matt naked in the showers and he was_ and then this hesitation, the ballpoint pen lifting, and then colliding with the page again, trembling but decisive, written as if he'd forgotten what letters were, his capitals convoluted and hieroglyphic, as if to rid the word of its meaning, _hot_.

Because little teenage Nolan, wiry and plump-faced, was braver than him, before he realised he didn't want to be weak, before he realised he had to make a choice, in this sea of brothers and cousins and teammates stepping over each other and looking for grips to climb up.  
Nolan had to make it out on top.  
He had to be the best. He'd have suffocated underneath otherwise.  
And in the struggle, there was no space for eyes that spent too much time on the picture side of Topps cards.  
There was no space for boys who thought other boys are hot.

Well, he's on top now.  
He's twenty eight years old.  
He has to open the box.  
It's long overdue.

Tony smiles back, and touches Nolan's shoulder, and it's like a jolt of electricity but Nolan can take it. It's light, but measured.

"Ready to go?"

Nolan forces his eyes up from Tony's chin, across his plump lips, along his rounded nose, and to his eyes, two blackberries in two waxing moons.

"Yeah." Nolan says. "Guess I am."

"Good. Cause so am I." Tony smirks, his Houston drawl dripping in the humid DC sun, smooth and warm like wildflower honey. "Let's go, baby."

His hand slips off. Before he walks away, he slaps Nolan's ass.  
Nolan almost gasps, but instead, he drops his eyes down Tony's back, his hand following.  
He gives a squeeze.  
Tony’s head whips around.  
He catches Nolan’s eye again, and shoots him a grin, before biting his lip.

And he says nothing, and walks away.

—

The Brewers lost their game a few minutes ago, and with tonight's win, the Rockies are three games ahead in the wildcard race.  
The visiting clubhouse is buzzing over the win still. The last few beat writers are leaving, a couple still hanging out by Charlie's locker, asking him about his two home run night.

Nolan finishes rubbing his hair dry with his towel, and slips into his street clothes, zipping up his bag. Off day tomorrow, so they get to spend the night in DC. He collects everything from the locker, and takes off. He wants a good spot on the bus back to the hotel.  
The hallways to the parking lot are empty and he pops his headphones on, taking his phone out of his pocket to check if he has any messages.  
There's his mom, congratulating him as usual. He sends back a few emojis and a "love you".

With his music in his ears, he doesn't hear anybody approaching, so when a hand drops on his arm, he almost turns around and punches Tony right in the face.

He's in street clothes too, a nice short-sleeved patterned shirt and jeans, his longish hair wet and combed back. He's laughing at Nolan quietly.

"Man, I scare you that bad?" He smiles.

His body language is low-down, even more placid than usual, and Nolan gets the impression he doesn't want to attract too much attention to himself, so he pivots away from the middle of the hallway. Tony sidesteps along.

"Sorry. Didn't hear you coming there." He explains, pushing the headphones down around his neck. "Sorry about tonight."

"Ah, it's fine." Tony shrugs, smiling through it. "It's far from over. Congrats, though."

His hand is still on Nolan's arm, big and warm. Nolan's trying not to look at it. Tony seems a little hesitant.

"So... I was wondering... you have an off day tomorrow... wanna come over? To my place? We can order food. Hang out."

His voice is a strange mix of tentativeness and offhandedness. Nolan can feel his heart speed up. He knows this sin't what he thinks... what he wants it to be. It can't be. But he can't say no. Maybe he should say no? He's not going to say no. He just can't make himself do it.

"Oh, yeah!" he nods, as casually as possible. "Yeah, dude, that sounds great, totally, yeah, let's do it!"

Tony's shoulders relax. Nolan hadn't noticed they were tense before, but it's strange seeing Tony _not_ appear laid-back.

"Cool! Let's go then, man! You got everything? We can take my car, I gotta show you the sound in there."

Nolan nudges him in the ribs playfully.

"Can't be better than mine, dude."

Tony hisses through his bared teeth.

"Ehhhh. Don't know about that, man."

Nolan notices they're both walking quite fast, and Tony has his hands in his pockets. His eyes are darting around too. He doesn't know why he feels watched, but he definitely doesn't like it too much. There shouldn't be anything to worry about. This is a normal situation.

Right?

Tony's car smells like brand-new leather and dry-cleaned clothes. Tony punches in a Latin playlist, and they drive away, in silence.  
Nolan doesn't know what to say; Tony's focusing on the road, zig-zagging away from the last few cars leaving the fans' parking garage. Once they get on the road, he expects there to be more conversation, but they both listen to the music instead, staring right ahead, and Nolan tries to decipher the lyrics, which are definitely sexual.  
Tony's eyes are glossy and he's chewing at his bottom lip ever so slightly ; it's not exactly awkward, or tense, but there's an anticipation there. For what, Nolan can't bring himself to really think about yet. But something's about to happen, he can feel it, and he feels like he's okay with it. His fingers are firmly clamped onto his bag as he watches the old historic townhomes of Tony's neighbourhood roll by.

Tony's street is quaint, tree-lined, and he parks in front of what appears to be his house. They both hop out and head to the front door, still in silence. Nolan is careful not to forget anything in the car, though he's not quite sure why, and he follows Tony through the little gate and up the porch's stairs, glancing at the painted brick walls and up at the house's turret. Inside, the living room is bathed in darkness, curtains pulled over a big bay window Nolan can make out in the back of the long room.

Tony drops his backpack in the entranceway, kicks off his shoes, and Nolan follows suit.

"You wanna beer?" Tony asks, finally, making his way into the kitchen. "What'd you like to eat?"

Nolan hears the fridge opening and he looks around him. There's a picture in a frame on the wall : Tony and his dad at Nats park for Father's day, judging by the uniform.

"Uh," he goes. "Yeah, I'll have a beer. I don't know... pizza? That's gotta be open at this time, I guess?"

"Yeah, there's a lot of choice, actually. Lots of grad students around here, they stay up real late." Tony drawls from the kitchen. "There's sushi, also, and, burritos." he adds, followed by the hiss of bottlecaps being popped off.

He flings the fridge closed, and walks back out, carrying two brown bottles of 3 Stars. In the dark, Tony's eyes are gleaming with the faint light from the veiled bay windows.  
He hands Nolan one of the bottles, pushing it against his chest. They stand there in silence, beer in hand, staring into each other's eyes, like cats in the night.

Slowly, Tony takes the bottle's neck up to his mouth, and takes a few gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing, his body inches away from Nolan in the narrow hallway.  
Nolan doesn't want to stop staring.  
There's no reason why he should.  
When Tony lowers the bottle, and locks eyes with him again, he can just tell.  
This is a show.  
It's for him.

Nolan doesn't know how it happens.  
But Tony's lips are soft, slightly moist, and irresistible. His hands are firm on Nolan's arms, grounding, electric, riveting.

They're kissing, standing there, and Nolan blindly puts the bottle down on the commode next to him, only for Tony to press him against the wall, his hands gliding down to Nolan's side, Nolan following suit and letting his own hands wander to Tony's lower back, rubbing up and down at the curve of Tony's ass.

It feels good. It feels right. This is what they came back here for. They pull each other closer, and Nolan kisses back the way he's wanted to for a while. Sharp and hungry. Tony's mouth bites dully, he tastes of malt. His body is strong, round, snappy like wood, soft like moss. And Nolan's a flurry of want tickling up his spine, flowing like a stream, grabbing for Tony as they stumble back onto the couch. And it's what's meant to happen, Nolan's body shaking as desire sprouts up, a fountain in his chest, flooding his head, drowning him, all his hair standing up on the back of his neck.  
He gives himself up with no negotiations. There's no point to it. He needs this. Needs Tony.

Tony's bracing above him and Nolan can't help but chuckle nervously as Tony's leg wedges itself between his thighs, pressing against his crotch. He's already short of breath, he shouldn't be short of breath, he's an athlete, he trains in Denver, but he's reaching for Tony's hips and sliding his hands up on his soft, fuzzy stomach and air is hard to come by, blood pounding at his temples as Tony's palm settles against his groin.  
Nolan only leans further into the kiss.  
He's really hard. It took no time ; he's so pent up, he sees it now, all that restless energy, that touch starvation, and now Tony all over him, pulling down his pants, stroking up his hips. He wriggles his legs to help him get rid of his skinny jeans, and reaches up to Tony's own button fly.

They're doing this. They're doing this.

Tony's thighs have an arc to them, muscular and curved and hairy, Nolan's digging his fingers into them, making divots in the flesh as Tony kicks off his jeans. His boxer briefs are bulging, the jockstrap left in the clubhouse, but Nolan's still wearing his and Tony lets a sound out, between a growl and a purr, feral want as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back onto Nolan's hips.

"Fuck." He grunts.

They both fumble for Nolan's shirt, pulling it above his shoulders, Tony's fingertips rough against his skin, his lips wandering to his neck and jaw. It's a mess. Nolan throws the shirt across the room and pulls Tony's face closer, shivering a little, drinking in kisses.

"Mmm." Tony lets out, rugged and out of breath. "I'm so hard right now." Nolan just about dies hearing that in Tony's sweet Texan drone.

"Shit." He gasps.

Tony's top is still on. It doesn't matter. Nolan's hands are there, running underneath, touching and groping, unbuttoning it.

“Fuck.” Tony mutters. “Get up.”

He stumbles up from the couch in his open shirt and underwear, and Nolan, hazy and throbbing, follows him upstairs, without even asking.  
He doesn’t look around once they’re in Tony’s room. He lies down on the big bed and rubs himself down to keep himself hard while Tony searches his bedside table’s drawers.

He knows what’s next, and he wants Tony’s large body back on top of him, radiating heat, he wants his hard cock rubbing against his through his underwear.  
For a minute they hump and wrestle, their bodies pouring with sweat, the warm gold of Tony’s arms and shoulders glistening wetly when Nolan opens his eyes long enough before lust swallows him back into the torrent of touch.

God, he’s aching for it.  
Tony's touch is heavy and sure. He's done it before. Every move guides Nolan as he rolls on his back, opening his legs for Tony to wedge himself between, the pop of a lube bottle distracting him for a second.  
It's like Tony knows just where to press, where to touch, as his cold fingers push in, as if he knows how strange it feels, and his other hand is working to draw Nolan away from the sensation, dragging up from his taint and the underneath of his dick, making his head spin and his thighs prickle.  
It's slow, and indulgent, and Tony's got soft kisses and tender whispers for his whole body, letting Nolan tangle his hands in his hair, dumbfounded by it all, by Tony's body framing him, safe, warm, _spoiled_ with touch.  
Their mouths connect again, slow and passionate, Nolan blindly and cluelessly reaching down for Tony's waistband, to give a signal, to tell him how hot he feels, how ready he is, anticipating it all with unbound excitement for the unknown, to prolong these new pleasures he'd be longing for behind a blindfold for half his life now.

Tony nudges him, and Nolan rolls onto his stomach, ass up and exposed, all his limbs in pins and needles. He can feel Tony's hard cock pressing against him and the sound of the condom being unwrapped, and he reaches down to where Tony was pressing earlier, behind his balls, remembering the wave of pleasure, so aroused he can barely make sense of his own movements, just seeking the shivering sensation. He makes himself gasp.  
Tony's ready, and he's got a hand on his hip and his knees between Nolan's legs, and he's slow and deliberate with it.

"Just breathe, cariño." He whispers, his hand stroking Nolan's tense stomach. "Breathe, easy. There, there. Que lindo. Que sexy."

Nolan doesn't know why that's so hot, Tony's voice all rugged and breathy like this, serenading him with Spanish endearments. But it is, and he lets out a sound he didn't know he could make.  
Tony leans over, almost all the way in, and he's hard and hot and throbbing and Nolan can only gasp and exhale long and wheezing.  
Tony's chest is pressing against his arched back now, and he hooks his arm around Nolan's shoulder, pulling him back, cupping his pec and thumbing his nipple, his lips dragging into the crook of his neck as he settles inside him.  
Nolan twists his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of Tony. He can feel his warm breath on his face and his mouth nibbling at his ear now, and Tony starts gently thrusting into him.  
Nolan's whole body shivers and he can't hold back the awed moan that escapes his lips.  
He never knew his own body could do something like this.

"You good?" He murmurs against his ear, giving it a kiss. "You alright?"

Nolan can't form words. He can barely keep his eyes open.

"More..." He manages, and arches his head back when Tony hits _that_ spot again.

"Jesus..." Tony curses, burrowing his nose in Nolan's hair. "So hot."

Tony is careful, but decisive, his movements languid but regular as he picks up the pace. Nolan hears himself panting, hears himself moaning, but he's too lost in the bright, decadent feeling shooting up his spine and tummy and down his legs to care what he looks or sounds like.

"Tony." He gasps as the other man gives him an experimental, rougher thrust, craning over to catch his lips with his, wrapping his other arm around his chest.

"That's it..." Tony coos against his cheek. "So beautiful... so good..." he rambles softly.

Nolan almost yelps. He's so hard. He's so sensitive. His whole body is tingling with need for release already. He whimpers, reaching back to paw at Tony's ass, chewing at his lower lip, shaking with Tony's short thrusts.

"S'going on?" Tony whispers gently. "You need me to stop?"

"No, no, don't stop..." Nolan gasps frantically. He never wants it to stop. "I wanna, I wanna..." he's cut off by a rush of pleasure and feels himself go cross-eyed, his vision blurring. "Ah!"

Tony's fingers are stroking the side of his face fondly. Nolan can barely think.

"I wanna see you... fuck, please, yes, yes, _yes..._ I wanna kiss you, I... _Ah...!_ "

He feels rapturous, he feels wonderful, and Tony's turning him onto his back and he can see his smiling, sweaty face above him, and Nolan pulls back his legs to give him access, thighs open and flushed.

"You feel so good..." Tony grunts, dropping down to his elbows. "Cariño..."

Nolan grabs his jaw with both hands, pulling him into a dirty kiss, all open mouths and quiet moaning. His cock is hard and leaking against his stomach and he won't last much longer. He's surprised he's made it that far through sheer power of will.  
He wraps his legs around Tony's waist, and lets his head drop back, boneless and drunk on lust, feeling it coming.

It only takes two more jerks of Tony's hips, pushing him up the bed like a ragdoll, to push him over the edge.

"Fuck." He hears Tony moan, and then his ears start ringing and his whole body jerks and arches, bucking underneath Tony, his toes curling, his hands twitching as Tony thrusts into him in short, sporadic strokes, long waves of pleasure washing over him.

When he emerges, Tony's between his legs, tying the condom, breath still heavy.  
He collapses next to Nolan, and their eyes meet.

"Fuck." Tony repeats, before leaving a soft, soppy kiss onto his cheek. 

"Yeah..." Nolan lets out, sleep tugging at him. "Fuck..."

He lets himself drift, feeling Tony throw his arm across his chest, gathering him up.  
He can regain his spirits and think about this later.

In the meanwhile, he's in the arms of a beautiful man and everything feels right.  
He slips into a dreamless slumber for once, and it's just as well.

**Author's Note:**

> In a very painful turn of events for me, a fan of exact historical timelines, this isn't a factually correct representation of the Nationals and Rockies' 2019 season. They don't play each other in September, and of course Tony turned down the All Star invite, and Nolan went to the ASG. But they also fall in love in this fic, so I think we're good.
> 
> I came up with this ship as a way to dampen anti-Nado sentiments among Nats fans. It worked. Here's the fic.  
> Oh, and it turns out Rendonado is [kinda](https://twitter.com/sydrpfp/status/1153850977272782848)[real](https://twitter.com/nationals/status/1154449281044090880?s=21), so, I'm a genius.
> 
> Title and summary from Slow Show by The National
> 
> Please please please leave a comment if you liked it! I often get too anxious to answer but I read them all and I really appreciate them!


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